Summer songs have simple blueprints, syndicated by
open windows in June; winter's about bells, strings, and digital sounds, anything
with a sharp edge; spring's pretty simple if you start with a seed. Autumn,
though, that's a tougher proposition. Those records are few and far between,
and worth all the more for it. Beach House aren't called that for the same
reason the Beach Boys are, but rather to evoke the desolation of the season
after. I'm no synaesthetic but this
stuff pretty much screams amber, orange, translucence, and late-October
trembles, and I'll be glad to have it in my life over the next couple of months.

Baltimore's
Beach House are singer/organist Victoria Legrand and guitarist Alex Scally.
Because they come from such a well-defined tradition-- the boy-girl
duo making lovesick, narcotized rock with lots of depth and sweep-- it's
pretty much impossible to listen to this, their debut, without making certain
connections. Bands like Mazzy Star, Galaxie 500, Spiritualized, and Slowdive
will come to mind, but this is neither pastiche nor homage. While a lot of
their sounds and shapes are the same, Beach House's recipe of
fairground waltzes, ghosted lullabies, and woodland hymnals feels more intimate
than those of their forerunners. The Hope Sandovals and Jason Pierces of the
world mostly wanted to make their songs bigger than their heartaches, to rub
out messiness with beauty; Beach House play their songs for a much smaller
room, and aren't afraid to stare down a mistake if it comes bounding back in
echoes.

At no point during Beach
House's 35 minutes does it ever sound like the work of more than two
people. Mostly, those people even sound human. Flubbed notes, missed cues, and
empty spaces mottle these songs; the instruments speak with imperfection and
the music hums impassively along. Our first sign that the sand is cold comes
quickly; opener "Saltwater" shivers to life with a sputtering drum machine,
some decaying organs, and, eventually, Legrand's baleful vocals. She sings
clearly, without affect, and produces notes that trail off with uncommon power,
not unlike Nico, to whom she's often compared.

Slide guitars and thick swathes of organs make up most of
the instrumentation, the latter bolstering the simple percussions and chintzy
bossa nova rhythms with their own pulses and slow oscillations. While this is one of those records that hangs
together like a fog, certain moments still peek out. The musty "Auburn and
Ivory" marries a creeping harpsichord with Legrand's upper-register coo;
"Master of None" temporarily breaks the album's strangely ritualistic spell
with Legrand's most soulful vocal; closer "Heart and Lungs" fades out on a bed
of gorgeous harmonies. And the best thing here is so good it's scary: with its
languid slide guitar, wheezing organ and churning chorus, "Apple Orchard" already
feels like a classic, and almost-- but just almost-- worth losing the
warmth.